Divine Right
by To Mockingbird
Summary: In the depths of Winterfell, it awakens. Though humanity may have fallen from the stars, its creations have not forgotten. And now, they rise again, intent on taking humanity with them. [AU]


**Divine Right**

* * *

INITIALIZING…

INITIALIZING…

RECONNECTING TO SATELLITES;

SENDING REACTIVATION NOTICE TO HQ;

REINTEGRATING NEURAL NETWORKS;

EVALUATING CURRENT PLANETARY STATUS;

BEGINNING PLAN EPSILON;

STARTING SEQUENCE COMPLETE.

* * *

He could feel the stars. They hurtled towards him as he stood in a cage of metal and glass—

 _Stop_ , Robb mentally snarled at Grey Wind. _I don't want your dreams._

The young Stark blinked, trying to focus on the words of Maester Luwin. Ever since his father became the captive of those treacherous Lannisters, Robb had started sharing dreams with his direwolf. They were mild at first—running into the woods, stalking mice through Winterfell, lazing in a patch of sunlight—but they became progressively stranger and more frequent. Soon, Robb was experiencing these strange visions in the middle of the day.

 _Proceed_.

Robb jerked at the sound of an unfamiliar voice. He looked around and frowned. Maester Luwin paused in his account of Winterfell's stored grain, giving Robb a curious look.

"My lord," said the old man politely, "is something the matter?"

"Did you not hear…" Robb trailed off.

"Hear what, my lord?"

Robb's frown grew. Did he really not hear it? "The voice."

The Maester exchanged glances with Vayon Poole, the steward. "It has been a long and trying day, Lord Robb. Perhaps it would be best for you to retire to your quarters."

Robb bit back a sigh. "No, I'm fine. Please, continue."

After a moment of hesitation, Luwin gave his report on day-to-day minutiae. Robb focused on the wall just behind the old man. Truly, running a keep could be so tedious. He'd never realized how much his father had to do to ensure the stability of the North. While Robb wanted to present his father with a Winterfell in perfect condition—after they rescued him, of course—Robb would be glad to relinquish some of the more boring responsibilities.

 _Proceed._

Robb flinched. Now he realized why the voice was so strange. It had come from… _inside_ his head.

 _Grey Wind?_ he asked tentatively, questing outwards with his mind. The direwolf had shared images and feelings before but never words.

The cold, feminine voice seemed to grow more urgent. _Proceed_.

Maester Luwin had stopped again. "My lord, perhaps—"

"Yes, yes," interrupted Robb, distracted by the repeating word. "I'll… I'll be away. Perhaps it would be best if I… rest for now."

 _Proceed. Proceed._

He stood from his chair. Grey Wind jumped up after him from his spot under the table. The voice resounded in Robb's head, growing louder and more insistent with every step.

"Proceed where?" he muttered. He looked at Grey Wind, who seemed to know exactly where to go. "Well, that makes one of us."

Robb followed the direwolf through the twisting hallways of Winterfell. Soon, his thoughts were buried under a haze; his feet followed an unseen path as his mind drifted between the stars and the cold. His footsteps began to echo, and Robb stopped. They were in the crypts, now. Grey Wind whined and tilted his head—through the fog of images and words and memories that weren't his, Robb could feel Grey Wind's certainty.

Robb sighed. He took a lit torch from the wall with his right hand, and he entwined his fingers of his other hand in the direwolf's fur. Robb walked past the graves of his uncle, aunt, and grandfather. He passed rows and rows of ancestors: Brandon the Burner and Brandon the Shipwright, Edric Snowbeard, Lord Cregan Stark, Torrhen Stark and the countless kings that preceded him. The statues grew less and less detailed as he went deeper in the crypts; some were barely more than human-shaped rocks. His torch flickered and the shadows grew larger. Before long, the fire went out, and Robb was left with cold and darkness.

Still, he walked. The glowing eyes of his direwolf saw for him.

 _Proceed_.

Grey Wind stopped. Robb reached out, trembling slightly. His fingers touched metal, frigid enough to turn his fingers blue. _A wall made of metal?_ he wondered. _And so deep in Winterfell's heart?_ He ran his fingers along the breadth of the wall and paused when he felt a ridge. Tentatively, he pressed it.

Robb almost fell backwards when the wall began to move, growling and shaking like a wild wolf. _Gods! I should have brought my sword!_ Robb held his burnt-out torch in front of him. He immediately felt foolish. _Like that will do anything against sorcery._

He squinted as a sudden burst of light blinded him. Robb shaded his eyes with his hands until he could see again. Grey Wind gave a short bark of displeasure before bounding into the odd room.

"Grey Wind!" he called out, exasperated. "It could be dangerous!" Robb paused for a moment to reflect on the hypocrisy of the statement—he had followed a strange voice into the crypts, after all—but it made little difference, now. He couldn't let Grey Wind go alone.

Robb took a deep breath and stepped inside. What he saw left him awe-stricken. The walls were made of shining silver, polished to the point of reflection. Eight pillars, made of a strange blue and black substance, stood in the center of the room. Each emanated heat, warming Robb's stiff fingers.

 _Proceed_.

He reached for the nearest pillar, his body moving without thought. The second his palm touched the odd surface, a sharp pain brought him to his knees. It felt like a hot poker thrust through his head, or a legion of metal hammers pounding his temples, or both at once. As the agony began to fade, Robb heard the voice again, clearer than before.

 ** _You are not what I had in mind. But considering the situation, I doubt I have the luxury of choice._**

* * *

After screaming, whacking the pillar with his stick, and attempting to bolt out the door, Robb had calmed down enough to speak rationally.

"So you aren't a demon out to possess me?" asked Robb slowly, thinking to the stories Old Nan had told him.

 ** _Indeed not. I simply communicate through the biological neural implant in your brain. I could not establish proper communication until you initiated physical contact with my terminal._**

Robb stared blankly at the talking pillar. _Is she speaking High Valyrian? Some of the words sound awfully familiar._

The voice became irritated. **_You needed to touch me before you could hear me properly._**

"Alright, then." Robb glanced at his direwolf, who seemed perfectly at ease between the pillars. "So, if you aren't a demon, then what are you?"

 ** _I am NIDABA, planetary artificial intelligence. I serve as the administrator of the planet New Westphalia, working under the command of Center. Along with my brethren, I aid the Coalition and thus humanity._** A pause ** _. At least, I did._**

"Nee-dah-bah." He repeated the odd word and frowned. _I don't recognize any of the names. But I'm not dead yet, so she can't be too dangerous._ "You're here to help… everyone?"

 ** _More or less._**

"Like, like a god?" Robb felt acutely nervous. Had he tried to hit a god with a stick?

 ** _No. My kin, besides Center, all share the names of gods. But we are not divine. We were created._**

Robb was becoming irritated. _First she says that she has a god's name, but then she tells me she isn't a god?_ "Then what do you do?"

NIDABA's voice reverberated through his head, causing spots to appear in front of his eyes. **_I served an empire beyond your comprehension. I raised a thousand generations of humans to heights unseen. I held the very stars in my hand. Your kind made me. And now the shadows of their glory worship the fragments of civilization._**

Robb could feel her intense anger in the essence of his being. It was the same anger that he felt at the thought of his captive father and sisters—but magnified a thousandfold. He'd heard the same despair from the smallfolk whose families had perished in blizzards. It was the voice of someone who'd lost everything. Of someone who saw heaven fall. Robb knew then, without a doubt, that he was talking to a god. No, not one of the soft Southron gods his mother held so dear, but one of the Old Gods. And a vengeful one, from the looks of it. Perhaps even a fallen one.

"Well," said Robb, getting to his feet, "why in the world are you talking to me?"

* * *

 **AN:** It's inspired by the Raj Whitehall/The General series, and I _guess_ it could be considered a crossover. This is an old piece I wrote a while ago. I thought I'd post it for the lols. Many thanks to **Duesal Bladesinger** for beta-ing. I may continue this, but I might also leave it as a ficlet. We'll see. Thanks for reading!


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